So I have some mild control freak tendencies. (And those of you who know me well, I know you just rolled your eyes. Don’t even think you got away with it.) Apparently, out of all the things my mother said to me while I was growing up, the old if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself chestnut is the only thing I actually listened to.

When does this become glaringly obvious?

When you’re sending your teenage son off on a school trip to a foreign country. (Yes, I know. It’s only Quebec. It’s only a six hour drive. But it’s still technically a foreign country and I take my drama where I can get it.) TK’s french teacher told them the bus would be stopping at McDonald’s on the way up. (TK might be the only kid on the bus to grumble at that. He’s not a fast food fan. I’m telling you—switched at birth.)

I, being me, proceeded to panic. “Make sure you tell them no onions. You may not know double cheeseburgers come with onions because I always order them without, but they do. Don’t forget to tell them no onions.”

Apparently, I’ve said this several times over the last few days.

SK: “Maybe he can call you from the line and you can do his order over the phone to the McDonald’s lady.”

Even for me, that would be a little much. If he forgets to tell them no onions, he’ll have to deal with it. All by himself. Without me. My husband said it’s a good thing I don’t have a passport or I’d probably follow his bus to Canada.

And I overheard TK asking his father if there was a going-to-college equivalent of “eloping”. My husband laughed and told him there’s no way he can get admitted to a college and get his stuff there without me knowing.

Now they’ll be calling me “Marie” again, dammit.*

(* Marie Barone, of Everybody Loves Raymond)